


Bats in the Belfry

by Acatcalledmimi



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Batman is rogue, Canon-Typical Violence, Deviates From Canon, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Harley has a shitty past, Harley is metahuman, Immortality, Metahuman gene, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Not from the Joker, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rogues Gallery, Supernatural Elements, The Joker is in love, Violence, Weird shit so bear with me, electroshock therapy, metahuman joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-11-14 20:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acatcalledmimi/pseuds/Acatcalledmimi
Summary: The Question: How does a lunatic fall in love?The answer: Madly.Doctor Quinzel's a monster in cheap heels; a psychopath playing psychiatrist. The Joker isn't fooled by her pretense; but she makes a fool of him nonetheless, and he wonders when he became the punchline of someone else's joke. Both of them nurse a hole that the other can fill, if only they weren't too proud to admit it.A slow burn, canon-divergent take on the origin of Harley Quinn, seen through the Joker's eyes, where their love for each other is equally strong, and equally fucked up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oooookay so. A few things I need to clarify here.
> 
> Number one: My love for Suicide Squad's Joker and Harley, unpopular among fans (well, in terms of Leto's Joker who a lot of people hate,) and controversial as they are, is a horrible addiction that has waned a few times but ultimately stayed planted in my brain ever since I first saw the movie. I've on and off been writing my own version of a backstory over the past few years, but my first draft was 40,000 words that were a generic "Sweet little Harley obsesses over the Joker and is corrupted by him," story that tied mostly with Canon, and after writing it for months I completely scrapped it- because I wanted to explore the inner darkness of Harley Quinn, and so 'Bats in the Belfry,' started taking a very different direction. I've abandoned it then come back to it over the past year or so... and now, I finally hit the "fuck it," point and decided to publish.
> 
> Number two: there's a whoooooooole supernatural element to this. I think I MAY have been a bit too inspired by M Night Shamalyan's Unbreakable/Split/Glass trilogy here when it came to Superhero origins. Basically; Rogues and Superheroes are all Metahuman. They're all born with dormant powers/abilities; they just need something to trigger that mutation (and so, sort of inspired by Deadpool's origin as well, I guess.) Whether it be extreme emotions- ie the grief over losing loved ones (ahem, Batman,) or a physical trigger such as falling into hazardous chemicals (we all know who THAT is.) And they're immortal. And all have vaguely psychic abilities where they can sense certain things.  
> Just... just go with it, I guess?

* * *

 

 

_**PROLOGUE** _

_******* _

_**'Bats in the Belfry;' an antiquated term for insanity/madness.** _

* * *

 

 

The air is stale and musty; the melancholy clouds are parting revealing sky a sickly yellow, congealed custard, as sunlight strains against the pollution.

 

The late afternoon storm brought with it sluggish, warm rain and an electrical charge that lingers, creating a sense of nervous energy.

 

But maybe it's people's own anxiety, projecting around them into the air.

\---

In a sixteen million dollar manor, a man who has "never wanted for anything," wants, badly. He tinkers relentlessly with obscene technology, advances that will never leave his basement, and knows that all of it will never really fill the two holes that were shot into his heart as a child. Because the rain in Gotham serves as an aching reminder of what was stolen from him, and the disgust that stirs within him is his motivator.

\---

Across town, a woman stretches out against the plush of her lounge, black velvet brushing her skin pleasingly. The storm has made a number of her companions skittish; she croons to her cats, a lullaby that they understand, that has the room vibrating with contented purring. She holds a silky tonkinese close, cream fur against the violet satin of her robe, the warm brown of her skin.

And surrounded by felines, she thinks about her other favourite animal- this one a winged rodent.

\---

With the rain has come new growth; sprouting in the limited areas of plant life this city has. Tiny green buds and whispers of moss. One woman feels the thrum and bloom of each of these developments, lying in the wet dirt, roots tangling in the copper of her hair. Soil clinging to her skin, her naked body, the pale silver-green of a succulent plant; she quivers in delight, feeling her body soak up the storm's wake, thriving.

\---

Underground, something vicious and manic is thrilled by the development- because he can't see the storm but he can feel it. The electricity crackles off his skin; the power of the storm is a surging volt to his heart. He howls and brays in triumph as he lies there, body tingling with the aftershocks of the day's weather.

"Something is coming," he announces delightedly. "Something's found us."

 

Because he has a sense attuned perfectly, his inner radio dial set straight to these things. And he knows this storm brought more than some irritating sogginess and an hour of being trapped indoors.

 

No, this storm carried something with it. Something new and deliciously dark, infectious, sadistic.

 

When a dormant rogue is about to wake, he can feel it. It always comes along the tail of some disastrous spell in the weather; a member of the herd stumbles onto the path that will either tear their skin from their bones and reduce them into rubble, or... it will create. Enhance. Mould the raw material that is there and shape a diamond from a lump of coal.

 

Not all humans are equal when it comes to raw power; there's a potential born into some, deeply coded strings of DNA.

It just takes a push. For the wheels to go hurtling off in motion. A lightning strike, the death of a loved one, a dip- _adipinsomechemicals_.

 

Mental or physical- the gene will be triggered, and they'll find their true nature.

 

He wonders who it is. What the push will be. How long it will take until he cocoon flakes away.

 

He licks is lips in anticipation, buzzing with the delicious foresight that Gotham is about to be shaken up yet again.

\---

And outside the gates of Arkham asylum, a psychiatrist with hair the colour of butter shows her newly laminated pass to security.


	2. Porphyria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for therapy; she immediately slips further under his skin than he'd anticipated. He sees, straight away, the potential that lingers in her- and he despises her for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is a bit slow, and pretty fucking long- so my apologies for that. But eh, first chapters. Also, writing the Joker is hard, holy crap. I'm pretty pissed because this is a chapter I stupidly didn't save my draft of before my computer crashed, and so I hard to start again from scratch. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Violence. Graphic descriptions of Violence. Threats.

_That moment she was mine, mine, fair,_

_Perfectly pure and good: I found_

_A thing to do, and all her hair_

_In one long yellow string I wound_

_Three times her little throat around,_

_And strangled her. No pain felt she;_

_I am quite sure she felt no pain._

_As a shut bud that holds a bee,_

_I warily oped her lids: again_

_Laughed the blue eyes without a stain._

 

-Porphyria's Lover, Robert Browning

* * *

The underworld is throbbing; fit to burst with the whispers, the rumours that are circulating.

They've all felt it; the stirring, the new flavour that lies under their tongues and seeps into their skin.

Some are intrigued; the green girl with the red hair and the elegant tanned woman with the catlike eyes are grinning, licking lips in anticipation. They crave the controversy to come like the purest strain of heroin.

Some are threatened. The man hidden by a mask, poison surging wthrough his pounds of muscle, readies himself for a fight. The costumed billionaire feels that sad resignation that comes with knowing the darkness is so fucking tempting, how can he trust whoever it is not to fall down the path so many have taken?

It's an invisible line between celebrated hero and rogue villain. They share the same gene; cut from the same cloth.

Villains just have less to lose.

And one of them now is waiting in isolation, a slash of white against the black of a cell.

The circus performer of a man lacks his usual lustre. It's in this place that his true appearance is visible- the white skin, tattoos and even the lips the colour of blood remain, bleached and stained into permanence. The _hair_ does not, though, and he's not thrilled about that.

He may not be normal. But he has some normal vanities- though they still manifest themselves in strange ways, to be fair. And one of them is the way the acid bleached not just his skin, but his follicles. So without his chosen hue, his hair grows in _white_ and it creates an irritating lack of recognition. He is Green; the acidic hue is linked to his identity, to his ability to monger fear.

Still, hardly important at this moment.

 _They_ are not thrilled that he's in here again, enjoying the most unusual form of all-expenses-paid vacation he can manage. _He_ couldn't give a shit what they think, though; they don't need him at the moment, and even if they did, he isn't their _coworker_ , he doesn't owe them shit. There's a strange camaraderie and respect swirling

Between some of the rogues, but he has seen them flip on each other too often to waste time working alongside most of that sideshow. The world they live in, it's foolish to believe that they have nothing to gain from stabbing each other in the back.

No, he sets himself above them; he's the one who runs all the dealings- though that chubby bird faced idiot in his top hat may have something (wrong) to say about that- and he's the king, heavily disputed but also in a strange sense undisputed as well, as though they question his reign merely for show while all silently respecting it.

Now, they've all felt the approach of a new metahuman and they want his input, want to act so they can seek out whoever it is that sits on the cusp of humanity and greatness, prevent them from being snatched up by the fucking bat and turned into another dispensable "good guy,", a pawn for the justice league. A potential rival is better than a potential enemy, is usually their philosophy.

But he sees no point in seeking them out. It could still be months before whoever the meta is fully realises their powers- and anyway, he finds it delightful to see the carnage that will come when they do. The last one to really make an impression was Pam; it was eight weeks between when they felt her presence in Gotham and when she was pushed over the edge, erupting and covering the entire city with thick tangles of thorns. _That_ was certainly amusing, and worth the wait.

And wait, he will. It's just a shame he's forced to deal with the small inconvenience of therapy in this place- a formality so pathetic it's laughable. (But of course, _everything_ is laughable to him.)Because no one can fix something that's not even broken- it's formed differently, working on a frequency that most people could never tune into, and you can't fucking fix that.

Still, it's oh so cute to see them try, floundering as he turns the probing back on them and picks apart _their_ minds. And then he gets to dispose of them, a magnificent way to pass the time.

But since his previous "therapist," is long gone (this particular one was not worth his time to bless with an interesting death- the bland, meek doctor had been so frazzled he had merely quit, and the clown had allowed this because he had better things to do than chase after someone of little importance,) he's going to be thrown at someone new. It's always an amusing little diversion, figuring out how long it will take to break them.

But the Joker doubts that she, whoever she is, will be interesting. None of them really are, after all, once he gets beyond surface value.

(In thirty minutes he'll eat those words right up like Greasy circus Popcorn, _God_ how he will laugh at himself and his own fucking naïveté.)

-

Doctor Quinzel is the only name he gets.

She's already there when they escort him into the room, shove him down into the chair and chain his ankle. Sitting rigid, unresponsive to the commotion as the guards spit insults in his ear while binding him. Her face is tilted away, focusing on the notes folded before her- but she's not the middle aged woman he was expecting. In fact she looks very young. Oh, so _pretty_. And he's certain he could tear her to shreds in a second.

Disdain flares immediately as the motives of the officials at work connect in his mind. They've tried various approaches of therapy; hardened ex-cons, kindly elderly men who act disgustingly like a father, stern maternal women who have a no-nonsense side. And now, here she is, their latest attempt; a porcelain figure, thrown in front of him as an obvious distraction. An appeal to his sexual appetite.

And the woman would stoke any straight man's lust, that much he can concede. But he's known the feeling of women closed around him in ecstasy countless times, and he's known the way it always ends, the hot slick of blood against both of their skin because the girl's looked at him with something all too soft in her eyes and he can't let anyone see what isn't there, assume that he holds any interest in their heart beating.

And she's dressed monochrome; black skirt and shoes. Grey shirt and pantyhose. White lab coat. Playing down a figure he can already see is almost pornographic in its appeal. She doesn't want to appear attractive.

How... Bland.

 _Meh_.

At first, face on (though her eyes, God, they don't meet his and that's fairly irritating,) all he sees is that her hair is scraped back severely- so her forehead bulges and the gel darkens the hue, browning it. But when she turns her head slightly, the stark ceiling light hits the ponytail hanging off the back of her head and emphasises how _yellow_ those barely controlled curls are.

Yellow hair. Not a dulled ashen blonde, not a bleached platinum, but a thick and almost sickly butter hue. He's always hated the colour yellow. A verse comes to mind; a graphic, romanticised image of a man choking the life from his love using nothing but her own hair. 

He thinks; look at little miss fresh faced bullshit. Just goes to show she can hide her colours but they always peek out somewhere. (There's always such potential to a natural blonde. Always a need to prove themselves not to be the ditzy stereotype.)

But still, dull, despite that shock of hair. He knows that once she gets closer he'll be able to read her and see she's like all the rest, eager to please and overachieving and sure that she can "cure," him in a way others have failed. Foolhardy children playing dress ups as adults; she's just another one.

 _Bland little brat_ , he sings under his breath. _Trapped like a rat. Crawling through the sewers, while she worships the bat._

He continues singing his little verse, looping it, playing around with the cadence while he watches her. Because a reaction will come, eventually; of that, he's certain. She may be sitting prim and proper in her chair but that won't last. Everyone has a pressure point, and eventually enough tainting will bring them to fracture.

But she doesn't even look at him. Is she scared to? He'd like to believe it, but he can't joke with himself and he knows that she's not scared- because like a rabid dog he would be able to sense the fear.

So- is she merely ignoring him? Indeed, she is.

DISRESPECTFUL.

 _Look at me, look at me,_ he thinks. _Look at me when I'm fucking in your presence or maybe you don't deserve to be able to see._

He's taken people's eyes for such blasphemy.

"Bland little brat, trapped like a rat, Crawling in the sewers, while she worships the bat!" He decides to raise his pitch, up the ante, but the results continue to let him down. Still not looking, still fucking ignoring him, and the anger festers and erupts inside him. He strains at the white bonds of the straitjacket, limbs shuddering with the need to break free, move, touch, _rip rip rip_.

"BLAND LITTLE BRAT! TRAPPED LIKE A RAT!" He's screaming now, spitting with each word, praying that some of it will land on her face. "YOU'LL BE DEAD AND NO ONE WILL CARE, NOT EVEN THE BAT!"

 _Don't ignore me now_ , if she ignores him then she's dead, she'll be strung up in fifty pieces the next day for her blatant disrespect.

Her eyes move to his, done with ignoring him, or maybe finally unable to deal with his irritating tactics.

And he sees in her face _who she is_.

He's thrown backwards by the force of it, wind knocked from his chest.

The storm that morning picked _her_ up and blew _her_ right on into Arkham, right into his fucking lap. Because her eyes are cornflower blue behind her glasses and when he sees beyond them he feels it, the crackle and burn of touching a bare fuse.

He can feel her energy in that moment; such a powerful, untapped source of crazy. She's not altogether human, does she even _know_ she's not? Does she even know the potential that's pushing at the surface, ready to burst?

He'd hazard a guess that she doesn't know. That maybe she's felt the difference in herself, but chalked it up to isolation, mental illness, plain old oddity.

It's none of those things, it's-

 _Rogue_.

She's the one they felt approaching. She's the fucking force he felt lurking this very day and she's right in front of him, but she's dressed up and playing a doctor and suddenly he fucking _loathes_ her. He loathes her because all it will take for her is _one_ fucking bad day and the dam will burst, and she'll be as powerful as him, but she's a fucking _therapist_ and he's in a white jacket with his arms pinned down.

But she has that gene; she has the potential coded into her body to be something more- in whatever way it manifests- and so she's fucking crazy too. They all are; the 'Justice League,', glorified prefects, might think of themselves as righteous but they're cut from the same cloth as the "villains," they fight against. 

Like the bat. The pathetic little cheerleader for all things "good," who in fact is even more fucked in the head than any one of the rogues, but who slaps on the old "fighting for justice," routine.

(If they knew what he was, what he did, the way the Joker does. If they fucking understood. The crimes he committed. The monsters he created. None of his vigilante bullshit will ever truly be penance for what that little vampire _rat_ has done.)

But that raises the question- how dare this woman, this "Doctor,", be sitting across from him as though she has the right? 

And she's just sitting there looking so damned expectant, as if he'll continue singing his little ditty. So he immediately clamps his mouth shut; she doesn't get to _expect_ anything from him.

"Please continue," she says softly. There's still a hardness to her voice, though, and maybe it would have shocked him, if he didn't _know_ what she was.

"I believe you were telling me I would die and no one would care, not even Batman?"

He says nothing; he won't gratify her like that. His previous intrigue at getting a new shrink to toy with has switched to a rank, festering dislike at the sight of this woman so clearly hiding behind a 'normal,' facade. She doesn't deserve even a shred of acknowledgement from him. 

"Don't you find it interesting that you immediately think of Batman? Why is he the first thing you bring up in an example that doesn't really relate?"

Well, no formalities with this one. He grits his teeth, metal grating against bone. None of her fucking business. Usually he would respect her for not beating around the bush in that detestable way most of them do.

But something about her calm demeanour provokes the opposite reaction in him; sheer agitation and rage, the flipside of her stoicism.

 _Don't react, or they win, she can't fucking win_.

But how not to react when she's struck a nerve?

Batman, Bruce Wayne, the wolf in sheep's in bat's clothing.

_Don't you fucking mention him._

He wants to hurt her, _needs_ to; lunge over the table. Strangle her with all that fucking yellow hair, watch the life falter and flee from those blue eyes. She wouldn't be so stoic then; he pictures the whimpering, the pleas strained by lack of oxygen.

He's done worse to therapists before her, he'll do worse to others that follow. She wouldn't even be a record for the shortest stint treating him; he's ended lives the second they've entered the room, whether taking out frustrations unrelated to them or because their mere appearance offended him in some way.

But there's a logic to the Joker that they all fail to see; his aggressive lunacy blinds them to the sense of strategy he also possesses.

And this creature before him is _useful_. She has potential; there's power coded into every cell. She could be great. She could be a glorious, disastrous monster.

But she's just SITTING AT A FUCKING DESK! ON HER FUCKING HIGH HORSE! BEING ALL BORING!

If she'd put a bullet in his head and splattered his brains all across the walls it would have been less fucking _annoying_. Would have been fucking funny, in fact. And improved the interior design which frankly leaves much to be desired in this place.

"Most of my predecessors remarked that you were incredibly talkative." Soft voice, devoid of any emotion. Hands folded all politely in front of her- fingernails clean and clipped neatly. In fact everything about her is so meticulous and ordered that it points to one conclusion; chaos.

It's cognitive dissonance; one is so flawless unless they are, in fact, deeply flawed and striving to balance it out.

"But you've fallen silent."

No _shit_. He waits for her to follow with a question but she's still as a mannequin, and almost as blank. (Much the same as a dummy, he knows the expression is painted on; there's _something_ underneath this. Facades like hers are thin and snap easily, from the Joker's past experience- especially when he can see just how much abnormality there is inside her, simmering right beneath the surface.

Let's bring that to a boil, so it escapes.

Little Miss Monochrome stares at him with that expressionless face, and fury twists his organs and twitches across his features. She's thrown the ball in his court; she won't say anything else until he does, she's intentionally testing his patience and it's all such a crock of shit. She's trying to get him to speak first, the silence is reverberating around the room, bouncing off of the gruesome stone walls.

She merely looks down at her notebook, starts writing- with painstakingly neat handwriting, he notices. (Well, what else?)

And oh, he _loathes_ her. She's piqued his curiosity; he can't see close enough to actually know _what in hell is she writing???_

No, no, NO, he won’t fall for this kind of entrapment. Her pen scratching meaningless drivel across the blank page should mean nothing- what does he care if she’s psychoanalysing him? That’s hardly a new thing. He’s been analysed by the best and brightest but no one has ever truly got under his skin, and this little girl playing dress up in a white coat may have the potential to be more, more than human, but that doesn’t mean she’s special to him. The other metahumans have nothing on him and so, by default, does she. Less than nothing. She hasn’t even unlocked her potential, maybe she never will; maybe she’ll just cram herself into a good girl corner and live a worthless life never knowing that she could have been so much more.

Maybe he’ll just fucking kill her. Right now. (Straitjackets are a laughable “precaution,” that he can get out of and back into before any guards are called.)

Killing her, oh, that would be such a treat. Like the finest vintage of wine, feeling her skin under his palms, knotting his hands in that fucking yellow hair, pulling her head back. A thin red line across her throat; a smile, red lips peeling backwards, blood streaking down the column of her neck.

Well, they all see him as the kind of creature whose sole interest is shedding blood. She'll most likely buy into that notion herself, so why not put on a show for her?

"Have you heard the story of Porphyria? She's unfaithful. So he strangles her with her own yellow hair. Maybe I'll strangle you with yours."

He giggles, cocks his head to the side expectantly. Not a flinch, not even a flutter of the eyelids.

He can't say he's disappointed- some would react to that immediately, but the ones who take a while to break are far more delicious.

But then her only response is to nod slightly, and scribble something else down. With her notebook tilted even further out of his view, all he sees is the way the silver of her pen flashes as she writes- and oh, God, he wants to tear it from her hand, snap each of those pretty little fingers right off. Because if he knew what she was writing- well, he would know what she was thinking, and that is the most useful asset when it comes to breaking someone. Get in their head.

Cracking open hers would be such a treat; he already knows this, with absolute certainty.

"Or maybe," he leans closer to her, torso digging into the cold metal of the desk, tongue flickering across his stained lips like a snake. "Maybe I'll skip the literature shit. Maybe I'll just eat all of your skin, piece by piece. _Rrrrrip_ it off. Deep fry it, and make it into hot dogs."

Her eyebrow arches at that- but not from fear, not the way it should. There's almost a resigned quality to her reaction; as though she's wondering if he's _quite_ finished with his trite little threats.

"How interesting. You've never shown cannibalistic traits towards any of my predecessors or any of your victims. I can only assume that's an empty threat for shock value- which, I'm afraid, is not working."

Oh, well, la di da. He leans backwards, the buckles on his straitjacket clinking and scraping against the chair, a pleasantly grating noise considering how unpleasantly quiet this room is at the moment. He's always hated silence; he prefers a chaos of different noises, laughter and screams and gunshots and carnival music all swirled into one.

"You're clearly one... _smart_ little thing. You know what they say about a blonde with a PhD in Psychiatry..." he pauses, cocking his head to the side, lips parting in a comical grin for effect. "She'll _blow_ your _mind_ , as well,"

He erupts into laughter, his slow warped life echoing around the walls. If there's one merit to these hideous grey rooms, it's that their emptiness and high ceilings make for wonderful acoustics. 

She, of course, does not laugh- and he feels the twinge of irritation at that. It's just always so _impolite_ when someone snubs his jokes, refuses to laugh. Then again, not everyone has a good sense of humour. And she doesn't look like she'd understand a joke if it slapped her in the face.

_(He pictures his hand colliding with her face, sending her spinning backwards, screaming "Laugh, Laugh, I just told you a joke, the king of comedy just performed for you, you should be honoured... the least you can do is show your appreciation!")_

"I've heard that joke before. I expected you to be more original, really."

The Joker's moods can change so swiftly that they startle even himself. And right now, just as he had started finding himself simmer again, the anger resurfaces with such heat that it feels he'll burn from the inside out.

"Oh? Well, well, let's hear you tell a better joke, hmm?" He sticks his neck out as far as the _wretched stupid laughable **unnecessary**_ straitjacket will allow, anything to get closer. If only he could lean over her, stare as close into her eyes as possible. Eyes, the window to the soul. A window he has closed many times before. 

She shakes her head. Yellow curls bounce around behind it like tentacles. 

"I'm not here to tell jokes."

"Please? Pretty please?" He pouts at her, dramatically, theatrically. Blinks slowly like a child manipulating a parent. "I wanna be your _friend_."

Her tone is nothing short of a dagger's point when she replies (the harshness of it is close to arousing. He feels a surprising but not unwelcome tightness against the uniform.)

"I am not your friend. I am your therapist."

He has to respect the fact that she's not like many others who do offer the pretense of friendship, as if insanity equates stupidity, as if he'll buy their sweet-smelling crap and spill forth his whole fucking soul.

But she also is trying his patience already, and they can't have been here for more than fifteen minutes. _Barely enough time to skin a bat._

The Joker's moods can change so swiftly that they startle even himself. And right now, just as he had started finding himself simmer again, the anger resurfaces with such heat that it feels he'll burn from the inside out.

Because... therapist. Therapist, such a trite and pathetic word that one uses when trying to increase their status, he thinks. People who know how to paint a fingernail call themselves beauty therapists. It doesn't mean she's above him, in any way.

In fact, she is notably beneath him. If honesty is a virtue, then he's far more virtuous than she; she's committing sin each inhale, each word.

" _Therapist._  Well, see, you did tell a joke, after all You're funnier than I am!" he laughs- a short, swift pulse that's gone as quickly as it comes, the grin on his face flipping to a frown in less than a second. "Why are _you_ counselling _me_ when you're less sane than I am?"

And- Ha!

A crack, splintering into that oh so fucking sweet porcelain little face of hers. Finally, she proves that she is in fact sentient; capable of being hurt. Breakable.

Why, he'd almost begun to _worry_.

She readjusts her mask seconds later- the cool, affixed lack of expression returns. But he's seen the way into her psyche, like a flare of light through the keyhole into a dark room. He's seem the flicker, the twist of her lips and tightening of the tendons in her neck. The sparks that appeared through those frozen-over eyes.

It's just a tiny chink in her armor but he senses it immediately, the weakness, the slight flinch. The way her lips tighten together, shoulders tensing.

Most people wouldn't notice. But he sees it, and rejoices- it's a way in, you see. That barely visible chip in the plaster will splinter over time and split further, spreading across her face, until it shatters and her true insides are left bare and unprotected. For him to take; for him to hurt. For him to control.

Knowing a person's greatest fear is knowing how to make them weak. And what she fears most of all, apparent in her reaction (minute as it was,) is insanity.

Not other people's insanity. Clearly not, or else she wouldn't be sitting across from him in such a (false) state of calm.

Oh, no; what she fears, _ah_ , it's much more deadly than that.

She feels her own madness. Her own abundance of it.

And that- well, that is something he can make _so_ much use out of that he lets out a shrill, mocking laugh.

"Why, you're just a certified whack job, aren'tcha?" He crows delightedly, face illuminated like a wondering child.

Her face stays smooth this time. But her knuckles whiten as her hands press against the edge of the table.

"I assure you, I am in fact sane." She says after a beat. _Liar_ , he wants to accuse gleefully. "Andthis is a classic distraction tactic. Projecting your own mental health issues onto someone else."

He has whacked her right on a nerve, though; like hitting the humerus, and watching as your arm trembles and fizzes of its own accord. He can see she doesn't appreciate the turn their conversation has taken.

And that's good. That means he gets to have _fun_.

"Oh, darling. No one can spot crazy better than crazy itself." he coos with false sympathy. "It's okay, Doctor Quinzel. I'll be _your_ therapist, how does _that_ sound?" A pause, and the darkness starts to blur the corners of his mind. "You can talk about your feelings. Cry on my shoulder. Maybe your Daddy touched you wrong as a child, but it's _okay,_ dear. Old _Doctor Joker_ is here to take care of you!"

"We are _not_ here to talk about me." Blank, lack of emotion is giving way to anger; he can see she's struggling, and that's good, that's wonderful. He's pushing her buttons already- _just let it out, just scream, just hit me, fucking kill me!_

 

"These sessions are about getting through to _you_ , and discussing why _you_ are in _here_. But we won't be able to do that if you act up like a child instead of talking to me."

" _Blah, blah, blah, these sessions are about you, Joker, tell me why you're having so much fun being in the nuthouse while I'm living a boring life!_ " He mimics her in falsetto, feeling that strange and almost unfamiliar anger resurfacing yet again. "Well, then, dear, what about me would you like to hear?"

A pause, while he arranges his features into a look of faux-sadness, lip quivering, eyes swimming. "My f-father used to h-hit me... that's the _only_ reason I kill people! That's why I set off all those bombs and created those gases... it was my dad!" He blinks, sniffing away crocodile tears. "Oh- but now I've talked about it in front of a therapist... you know what..." A loud, dramatic gasp. "I'm _cured!_ Oh, thank you, doctor Quinzel! I'm good to go, now! I'll never hurt another soul or break another law again- and all because I _talked to you!_ Therapy! It really works!"

He breaks off into wheezes of irrepressible laughter- the whole thing truly just is that funny. The fact that they go through the motions like this, send doctors down here on what is either a death march or the steps to a nervous breakdown at the very least. That these doctors try their shiny new flavour-of-the-month therapies; and he's had them all, from cognitive behaviour to hyno-therapy to good old fashioned volts to the brain, back in the day. 

And the fact that someone who doesn't have all their mental faculties in order themself, who's just holding on to her own marbles, thinks that she has a chance with him. It's the greatest joke of them all. It's a punchline that will split your sides so much that your ribs will poke out.

He keeps laughing. Laughter is a terminal disease and it refuses to subside, deep throaty noises that make it almost impossible to breathe. They'll slow, but then he'll look up and see her oh-so-serious face and the humour will just be too much.

It isn't until the laughing finally subsides to its final vestiges, a few hiccuped giggles (while his lungs ache and his throat _burns_ ), that she speaks again.

"I hope you'll be calmer than this in our next session. I'm not a fan of administering tranquilisers- but at the same time, this level of hysteria is neither healthy, nor productive to our sessions."

He hoots at that, another laugh ripping through his aching throat. It feels scratched fit to burst, but he can't stop. Tranquillising him?

It doesn't _work_.

No one knows that, of course, because it's just too much fun to let these people think they have a sporting chance, that they can win. Otherwise, like the children they are, they just wouldn't play, and life without games truly is no fun.

So he acts as though the serums work; as though he gets groggy, subdued. But it's not a weakness. It's a strength. People trust him more when he's "calm,", they ease up, let their own guards down.

Oh, yes- he hopes she will tranquillise him next time.

"Doctor Quinzel," he asks with faux sweetness, switching again, trying to catch her off guard. "Could I trouble you for a glass of water? All that laughing has... hurt my throat."

She deliberates. Narrows her eyes, considers what trick he's playing. But it's unethical to refuse a patient a basic human right, and she's trying to be a good doctor, after all...

There is a plastic pitcher on one of the cabinets, across the room. She crosses swiftly and silently, and he feels delight at seeing her move- a stiff, rigid walk, each step deliberate.

She's trying to avoid any hip wiggling or sashaying; yet more proof that she does not want to appear sexy.

She pours him a plastic cup of water, places it halfway towards him on the desk and watches expectantly. He rolls his eyes.

"How am I supposed to drink it like this?" A shrug of the shoulders, emphasising the heavy jacket that weighs his clever hands down.

Her lips are pursed and her face is unconvinced as she extends the glass with her neat, clipped fingers. He leans in, takes a sip, lets the lukewarm water swirl down his throat. He takes another, and another, and she's relaxing; she's less concerned with him pulling something.

So he pulls half the cup into his mouth, ballooning his cheeks, before

Spitting it all into her face.

Water mixed with saliva splatters across her cheeks, droplets fogging up her glasses, clinging to her eyebrows. She sits back slowly, face crumpling into disapproval, while his laugh bounces around. A classic gag, but it will do.

"I think I'll end our session there." She says drily. "Today was just an introduction, after all."

As she's halfway to the door, he calls out with a sudden, burning impulse.

"What's your name, Doc?" Because calling her _Doctor Quinzel_ is a dull formality, the type he eschews. The name of the demon gives you power over it.

She responds with a terse, tight-lipped thing that would be an insult to smiles to call it one.

"What's yours?" She flicks the question back onto him, and as she closes the door behind her he tingles with a strange mixture of loathing and delight.

\--

There's a cat in his cell. He recognises it immediately, when the guards shove him back into the room, and grins silently as they trudge away.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he cajoles mockingly, and a moment later she falls from the ceiling, dark hair fanning around her. He clicks his tongue in faux-disapproval.

"My, my, a bit risky for you to keep climbing up in high places like that, hmm? One of these days you'll get stuck, and we'll have to call the fire brigade to help kitty up in the tree."

She straightens up, even the way she stretches is feline. Back arching, fingers elongating.

Selina has a beauty to her that he has always appreciated, yet never lusted for.

"I heard through the grapevine that you were assigned a new therapist today."

Into business immediately. No pleasantries.

"And by _grapevine_ , I assume we're referring to a certain coppertop plant who enjoys, shall we say... petting the pussy?"

She rolls her eyes, but he can see the amusement that tickles her from his joke, and he wriggles gleefully.

"I would say Ivy sends her regards. But she doesn't."

Always to the point, no nonsense, he likes that about her despite his own love of _everything_ nonsense. Besides, if she said Ivy sent regards, he would know she was lying, and he despises lies. Ivy dislikes him. She dislikes him because she likes Selina and because he knows Selina's true love will always be... bats.

And poor little Pammy has the vines pulled snugly over her eyes if she thinks otherwise.

"Tell dear little poison sap that I said not to be such a _weeping willow_ ," he instructs cheerfully, eliciting another feline eye-roll from his company. "Now pardon me for being a bad host- can I offer you a drink before we get down to business? A saucer of milk, maybe?"

She ignores the joke, as well as the cackle he follows it with. Sits down neatly on the bed beside him, slender hands folded in her lap.

"The others think you've been in here long enough," she drawls, and though her exotic voice is deadpan her words still hum with the soft vibrations of a contented purr. "They think you should be outside, handling business."

When she does not elaborate further, he snorts with impatience. " _And?_ "

She stretches out her fingers (flexes her claws).

"I think that if you're staying in here, it's for a good reason."

"I like your observation, kitty." A beam, a wriggle of excitement. "You always were perceptive. Extra catnip for you!"

When she looks back at him, her eyes are searching for something and it's clear she's not distracted by his antics.

"A lot of them are... concerned. They know something big is coming."

His lofty smile is irrepressible. He's always found joy in knowing things that others don't, in being the first one to find something. Selina sees this and she knows immediately. All it takes is the arch of an eyebrow for him to admit.

"There's a new shrink looking after me. I find her... very interesting. _Detestable_. But intriguing."

There's a lot more he could say. Much he has learned and even more he doesn't know. But he'd rather give the kitty nothing but the basics and let her find out for herself what she can, paw through the information given and learn every tiny facet of this strange "human," who has sauntered in.

You can learn about a person from their laughs. He should know; laughter is his own field of expertise, after all.

And Selina's laughter is oh, so, fitting; a sleek rumble from her chest, rolling off her tongue.

"So a metahuman is working at Arkham Asylum. How _per_ fect."

A moment of shared agreement. Slanted, catlike eyes meeting wide livid ones the colour of ice chips.

They both are on the same page in regards to this. Once someone snaps, realises their power, is no longer dormant... well, then, they either are finally set free, or they fall into he "superhero," trap and end up another caped freak hounded by the public, starting fights and blaming them on others. And he and the cat- well, they both agree that it's best if they lean someone towards the whole 'freedom,' side. A psychotic, destructive villain is always preferable to a psychotic, destructive "hero."

So when possible... _recruit_. When someone has dormant "powers," just waiting to be unleashed, then it's best to keep tabs on them before the Bat swoops down like a cockeyed vulture and intervenes.

"She's already crazier than anyone in here. I can _smell_ it on her. Trust me. She just needs a little _nudge_. Of course... It couldn't hurt to know a bit more about her."

Her modus operandi. No one can hold a candle to a cat when it comes to cat burglary; sneaking around, finding documents, information, _secrets_.

"Name." Is all she says, and though her face remains nonchalant, the word alone is enough of a concession that he knows she's going to help him on this.

"Doctor Quinzel. I don't know her first name." Yet. He wonders on it. What kind of name could you pair with such a _stupid_ surname? 

A curt nod, and she stretches up, flexing, as if about to jump. He cocks his head, disappointment morphing his smile into a grimace.

"A _hem_. Puss in boots. I believe I had another request for you?"

Said boots, elaborate leather with spiked heels, pivot and she scoffs. He almost mocks her on that, quips _Furrball in your throat?_ but he has already asked a few things from her. Background check on little Doctor Jekyll ( _please, please, become Hyde soon, you'll be much more fun._ ) and the gift that she should already have for him. Better play nice, better not get scratched.

"I still don't understand if you actually like this crap, or if it's just another _joke_."

She unzips the bag slung around her hips and rolls the can of grape soda towards him. He catches it against his foot, vivid purple against the grey of the floor, and snickers in delight.

"Did you bring me any ice to drink it with?"

"Don't push me any further, pennywise," She responds, a soft mewl of a laugh breaking through her facade of irritation. And she's gone, swinging deftly up into the vent she materialised from, pulling the grate back into place. If it weren't for the soda she'd brought him, he would think her nothing but another hallucination, created by the underlying insanity of this place.

He cracks the soda open with his teeth; drinks it in the chaotic noise of silence. Silence is dangerous; it leaves him with the company of himself.

He thinks in a manner far too sane for his liking. He thinks of Selina and the fact that she is, truly, something he wants himself not to require; a friend. He thinks of two boys, the prince and the Pauper, the Bat and the Clown.

Nothing especially new. But there is one addition: Doctor Quinzel repeatedly walks through his thoughts, everything about her sapped of colour but leaving a train of scattered fireworks behind.

* * *

 

_A sad, shapeless little form drowning in the murky sewers while he laughs through the grates above. Closer to the surface of that stagnant water than most- but she can't climb out, she won't. There's a ladder in front of her._

_"Why don't you climb it?" The rat sitting on its rungs asks. It's larger than most rats, its face less pointed, its ears moreso. It speaks in an accented, deep voice that's so fucking false, he wants to jam it straight into a trap._

_"It's rusty," She whines. "I can't climb a rusty ladder."_

_"Good girl. You don't want to climb this, it's better to drown." The rat patronises her, scurrying up the very same ladder it told her not to. The girl flounders in the water._

_A crocodile swims closer to her. She runs a hand over its rough snout invitingly, giggling as its jaws wedge open, and her sickly yellow hair is growing, tendrils writhing around her and alive, squirming with fat wet squishes as the crocodile's jaws close around her skull. Blood flows down the yellow hair, mixed with a pulp that may once have been skull, brains, a face. But she's still laughing as the reptile crushes her into nothing, and he's still staring through the great at the frothy, red sewage water, his own laugh rapid and insatiable. The rat is on his shoulder, sleek and black with its deep, distorted voice._

_"She's better off dead." The rodent booms. And he shouldn't care but a rage flares, everything sparking off into crimson fireworks and explosive flames around the sides of his vision. He yanks the rat up by its long, bald tail, throws it onto the ground and steps on it with his bare foot. It breaks into more, smaller rats that scurry and climb over his toes._

And he wakes up screaming- not with fear, with joyous laughter, ripping from his throat until the guards come in, meatheads who demand that he _**shut the fuck up, freak**_. But he can't stop, not even when they slam their fists against his jaw, into his stomach, his crotch. Blood trickles against his metal teeth but still, he laughs, because when he laughs, it chokes out the thoughts that threaten to surface. And he loves the pain, fucking craves it; when he's in pain, he knows that he is real. That the world itself is real. That he's not just living in another delusion.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. I suck at writing, whoohoo!!! 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you actually made it to the end of this chapter, constructive criticism is always welcome.


	3. Something Wicked this Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Quinzel is a farce; a mask to hide a Harlequin, a trickster capable of mortal sin. He sees it too easily; the mask is just more difficult to slip off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or are writing therapy sessions really annoying? I know they're an important part of Harley Quinn and the Joker's relationship but God, I struggle writing them.
> 
> So far Harley hasn't been in this story so much. The reason for that is I'm kind of going for a slow burn here; she will be in it more, more of her personality will be revealed and we will start to see things from her eyes as well. But right now I'm playing with the Joker's earlier impressions of her.
> 
> Please leave a note letting me know what you think; constructive feedback is always welcome, and thank you so much for those who commented and/or left kudos.

_Fair is foul, and foul is fair;_  
_Hover through the fog and filthy air._

 _-_ Shakespeare's MacBeth

 

* * *

Littered with purple bruises. Good. Purple is one of his favourite colours, after all.

They're getting less concerned with being caught. They used to hide their vindictive beatings, below the collar; then they realised that no one cared, beyond a very basic pretense of ethics at the most, and so they starting moving upwards to his face.

He's no stranger to bruising, no enemy either. Bruises on the outside face in a kaleidoscope shift yellows and blacks, and what is left?

No, physical marks pale in comparison to bruises flushing across one's soul.

And they always attempt to humiliate him: after beating him, they "allow" him to eat in the main dining hall, a so called privilege usually reserved for patients less likely to slaughter the entire dining room with plastic cutlery.

Really, he knows their pathetic ploy is to parade him in front of the other inmates, bidding them a warning; look, come and see, what we did to your "king." As if physical prowess is a reason any ordinary, human thugs fear him and rogues respect him. How trite that would be, he thinks with a cackle that breaks through his silent facade and startles the orderlies. Oh, no- his status is won purely by duels and challenges of the mind.

The mess hall is heavy with the bleaches they use to scrape up remnants of bloodshed, once a week or so. A handful of the lessers holler and heckle when he's wheeled in, strapped to his chair from the neck down. Some people are fearful, rightly so. Those are usually the ones more deserving of real help in a true hospital than this prison glorified with false promises of "kindness".

And sometimes- he sees ones he knows; old friends, occasional enemies and constant coworkers in their cause against the Bat. Rogues, metahumans. It's a revolving door for who among them he'll see in here before they escape again. Delusions of grandeur, after all.

Right now, though, it's just one; Dent slumps alone at a table, expression perpetually twisted by the mottled, discoloured skin that stretches across half his face. One eye stares downwards at the plastic surface of the table; the disfigured one twitches in its socket.

And the Joker doesn't bother addressing him- though typically, he might call out a greeting, some kind of play on the yin yang nature of Dent's appearance; _Harvey, how nice to see both of you._

But it simply doesn't feel like a necessity at this point.

Static electricity. A sharp crackle that pricks his fingertips, where they wrap against his torso in the straitjacket.

He knows that she has entered the room before she even does.

The woman with her plastic heels and polyester slacks, blouse ill fitted; everything there is worth a grimace. Her clipboard is held like a life preserver against her chest and as she stalks across the floor, the tails of her white lab coat billow behind her with all the flourish of a cape in a gothic vampire film.

Her hair is even more severely hidden today, yellow curls twisted into a tight knot. With the precision of an apex predator, he watches her moving about, speaking to an orderly who looks back at her with a strange expression of regard the Joker would not have believed one of those incompetent would-be prison guards to be capable of.

She talks with chapped lips and it seems to be nothing of importance, but he cannot turn his head. He doesn’t understand the strange, primal fascination he has with her.

That she irritates him goes without saying. Everything about her feels somewhat… pathetic, all a sad attempt to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes as to her true nature. The overcompensations to make herself dull are like throwing a woollen scarf on a wolf in order to disguise it amongst sheep; it’s laughable, but not in the way he prefers. The humour he finds in her is not like a well told joke, but the kind of joke so poorly constructed and cringe-worthy that you laugh at out of shame.

But there is not just irritation. He is… intrigued by her.

She is a far more interesting view than the so-called food placed in front of him, after all. Arkham is hardly known for being a Michelin awarded restaurant.

Especially not when the orderlies have to feed you, with gloves just in case metal teeth lash out to bite a finger (something he has done more than once.)

And as she aims to leave the room, her eyes sweep over the patients clustered there. Standing above them all, suddenly her height seems to exceed itself; the yellow hair flashes golden in the stark lighting and he realises that she emanates a subtle sense of power.  
The inmates around her could easily snap her bones, of that he’s certain, but they’re sat shackled and beaten down. Forced into worn grey uniforms, many of which are stained heavily, and slumped over a table with meals that may as well be a swipe of filth from the ground.

Her eyes, still caged behind their glasses, flash wantonly the second they meet his, and the Joker glimpses a shadow of something else behind her, a bubble of high pitched laughter and flashes of cotton candy colours.

But she turns her face away before that shadow becomes any more real, and those hideous plastic shoes transport her right out of the room. Click her heels, time to leave Oz-

there’s no place like home.

What is home to one Miss Doctor Quinzel? Just more thing he’ll have to find out, so that he can satiate his intrigue of her, and so that metahuman or not, whatever appeal she may have will become as low as the prison grade food placed in front of him.

* * *

By the time therapy rolls around he is feeling remarkably sullen. He can't muster the smile he needs to display whenever possible; his features feel etched into an unpleasant frown, like the tragic theatre mask, all bowed features and furrowed brow.

When she enters the room, the need to throw some form of projectile at her throbs and irks him. He can't, of course; the fucking straitjacket saps all creative outlets that involve his arms. Can't even use the tattooed smile in lieu of a true one.

"A lot of my colleagues think of you as a psychopath." She says bluntly, without so much as a greeting. He breathes out a sharp sigh, stagnant with irritation.

Here they go again.

"Hello to you, too, Doctor Quinzel." A sarcastic sneer. "I've been magnificent! How about you?"

She ignores the jibe pointedly; he supposes he really couldn't expect any less.

"I disagree with them. Others think of you as a sociopath." The beat of silence hangs from the centre of the room, like a noose. "I disagree with them as well."

And God, strip his bones and condemn him to hell; because now he is truly curious as to what she's about to say.

"I think it's stupid to put an all encompassing "diagnosis" to what you are and how you behave. People like to do that because they believe they can understand you. Frankly, I don't think any textbook could define your behaviour patterns, your way of thinking. You are something else entirely."

Her words soak in, permeating his skin the way a toxic batch of chemicals did so long ago. He finds himself at a true loss for words, entirely different to his sullen silence from earlier.

None of the therapists, no matter how highly accredited, have even suggested this before; their minds have all been too logical to believe in anomalies, despite so many right in front of them. They have all tried to pigeonhole him into one category or another; narcissist, psychopathic, sociopathic... one even dared to suggest he had multiple personalities, one of which was a psychopath, one a sociopath.

They all want to be the one to truly diagnose him. They want their name stamped on that form, on the prescription for whatever pills are to be flushed uselessly down his throat.

She is the first one to ever speak the truth in this respect; what he is made of goes beyond something that can be diagnosed by a sparse understanding of insanity and medicine only intended for plain old non-mutated humans.

Of course, he wants to argue with her. He wants her to be wrong so that he can laugh, taunt and torment her into nothing but a submissive, insecure drone who will do anything he requires.

But the gut wrenching truth of this is; she is, in fact, _right_.

And he is a monster, but he is not so hopeless enough that he can't at least respect that observation about her. That beautifully smart, beautifully annoying brat.

"Well, well, Doc- _tor,_ " he draws it out slowly. The smile that refused to appear earlier comes to him now with nothing but a sweet, simple ease. "I have to say... I'm impressed. You're not just another pretty face, are you? And after just one session, as well."

Said 'pretty face,' is back to being a blank slate again today; deceptively smooth and unaffected, it looks like he'll have to push around to find the cracks he created before. Push a bit harder to widen them and make them last.

"That is what I've been trying to tell people for _so_ long, after all. And you just pick that up straight away! You know what that proves to me?" He crows, delighted. And to her credit, she seems to anticipate what is about to come; tries to divert it.

"I don't care what it 'proves' to you. We are not going off on a tangent today-"

And he doesn't care what she is trying to say, so he cuts her off.

"It proves just as I thought- you really are like me. It takes one undiagnosable whack-job to identify another!"

The further proof of _her_ insanity doesn't rattle her the way he had hoped it would. He can't say he's really surprised; she has, no doubt, prepared herself for this session. Readied her armour for a battle of wits. And he is glad of it; how boring would it be, after all, if she sat back and let him throw his words at her with no response?

“Now, I have to say.” Continuing as though he never spoke, she readjusts her glasseswith one hand. (He catalogues the movement; fidgeting, after all, is undoubtedly a sign that she is uncomfortable.)

“Since we’ve got it out of the way, and established that you aren’t a psychopath, or a sociopath- that leaves the fact that you do harm people and destroy things. A psychopath or a sociopath typically does not feel empathy or guilt. You are neither, so I have to ask; do you feel guilty?”

She says the question with such sudden intensity that it's nothing if not ridiculous. As if some melodramatic statement is going to startle him, make him marvel at her depth and integrity.

Pity, really; she was doing so well today. She'd actually managed to garner his respect, for a moment at least.

He snorts out a laugh, clicking his tongue.

"Oh, Miss Quinzel. You _don't_ beat about the bush, do you?" A shake of his head in disbelief, while her gaze follows his movements. "You're a smart girl, I think you know the answer to that. If I felt guilty about my- let's call them _hobbies_... well, it would spoil all the _fun_ , wouldn't it?"

He shoots her a sickly sweet smile at that, still riddled with amusement that she would even think to ask something like that. 

He is _capable_ of feeling guilt, you see; he just _doesn't_ , at least not regarding the things he does that would disgust most.

Everything has its purpose. And there is far more to it than most civilians could ever bother to understand. Naturally, he's not going to explain any of the intricacies to _her_ , though; she may have the potential to be something glorious, powerful, terrifying; but she also has the potential to swing right into the caped crusade and start strutting around with all the fucking "heroes".

He may know, with all the familiarity of an old friend, the darkness inside her- but he doesn't know _her_ , herself; let alone what she is or is not capable of doing and feeling.

So no, he does not trust her. He won't explain the inevitable exception to the rule that he feels no guilt.

"Why would you even ask such a stupid thing?" He continues, his voice derisive but face still twisted into a grin. Her fucking pen swipes across the page and he pictures jamming it into her mouth, forcing her teeth down so that it _crunches_ and blue ink spreads across bloody, white teeth.

He imagines her teeth shattering across the room, and fixing them with metal; just like his. The thought leaves him chuckling to himself profusely.

"It never hurts to ask questions." She says simply, gently. Her voice is like colourful candy surrounding an apple; pleasant but hardened, a protective shell around whatever may be underneath. 

"Well, in that case, maybe I'll ask a few of my _own_ ," He challenges devilishly, raising his hairless brow as if to test her. And obviously she doesn't react, she's clearly trained herself not to, but he hopes this will scratch the surface in a way that benefits him.

"You can ask. It doesn't mean I'll answer." Another simple, curt response; a pause while he waits in the slowly inflating bubble of silence. Then just as she's about to speak-

"Tell me, Joker, why do you-"

"Ah, ah, ah!"

-He cuts her off with a fierce, obnoxious click of the tongue.

"My turn to ask the questions. Now, what is a very _breakable_ thing like you doing 'treating' a very _destructive_ thing like me, hmm?"He twists his neck, feeling the bones crack together and hissing in satisfaction as they do.

"It's my job." She says simply, but he doesn't buy it and he hopes to God that the holler he lets out shows her so.

" _It's my job_ ," he mimics in falsetto, breaking out in another laugh while she watches in clear bemusement. "If you say so, sweetheart."

There has to be something else to it, after all. No one would willingly put themselves in a situation where they could be at his mercy, or lack thereof, without something to gain from it.

Some want money, fame, a kick to their career. Others have misguided philanthropy and believe that they are just so kind that they can help him, he who does not even need help (but _they_ do- oh, yes, _they_ need _so much_ help. Help that _he_ could provide with a bag of tricks.)

She continues to ask questions; many, he does not care to answer, or feels are so trite and worthless they simply do not deserve answering.

His _real_ name?

She asks this with such futility; they both know it is hardly an original question and also an elusive one that he would not answer to satan himself. He knows she isn't expecting a genuine response; most likely she has just been ordered to ask this as if something about her is so special that she can tweeze knowledge which no one else can. He tells her his 'real' name is _Laugh McJoker_  and laughs aloud against her silence.

She asks him about the tattoos.

He tells her he was born with them; that they're just odd birthmarks and that he'll thank her not to stare at something he's so self conscious about. Her lips purse at his sarcasm like a tightly shut oyster.

And in return he throws his own questions out there; what is her first name?

She does not answer that one. That is an interesting choice and one he notes; he'll find it out anyway, and so easily, so her choice to conceal it must mean something.

How old is she?

This, she does answer; just twenty four. Unsurprising; she looks young. 

When she asks him his own age, he responds with _six years old_ , in a stilted childlike voice. He thinks it is rather funny- but then, he knows he always is funny. He's not surprised this time by her lack of amusement on the surface. Inside she could be bellowing with laughs for all he knows.

She asks him how many people he has killed; he genuinely doesn't know. Why bother to count? Death doesn't hold the same weight to him that it does to others.

While she notes his answer to yet another mundane question, he turns his head straight on to her and feels his smile dropping into a more sinister expression. He watches her careful actions, like a white sheet folded neatly to hide a bloodstain. And he swears that he can smell blood in the air, a long lost hint as if in a space where a murder took place.

He knows murderers. Knows many; himself included, naturally. He has spent time with them and he knows how they conduct themselves; it is not all that difficult, with the proper experience and intellect (but then, so few people really _are_ as intelligent as he is; those who take him for a fool do not realise that madness so often comes hand in hand with genius.) to pick out someone concealing their past misdeeds.

And the lightning strike of realisation that courses through him sends him trembling in delight.

"How many people have you killed, Miss Quinzel?"

Her answer comes far too swiftly. Far too practiced, as if the question is one she's revised and prepared for like an exam.

" _None_ , of course. I've never killed anyone."

Delivered robotically; with the appropriate indignation and disgust threaded through the words, but he still sees it for what it is.

A lie.

He doesn't speak; just meets her eyes and his lips curve into a smirk. They stare each other down for just a moment; the hardness in her gaze, the streak of heat, tells him all he needs to know.

And his silence tells her all she needs to know. That he sees through her like the thinnest of veils.

"I think we should conclude our session here." She checks a watch; mid range price, very plain. Clearly a lot of thought has been put into even that purchase alone to prevent it from standing out. "I'll see you again, this time next week. We'll be working with weekly sessions for the time being; if you don't seem to be making progress, we'll increase them. Once you start showing signs of improvement, we'll move it down to every fortnight."

He doesn't say anything; why waste the words when a response simply isn't needed? Instead, he stares at her and feels a primal urge to act out even more than his usual extent; to scream and kick and howl and fucking vomit. So that he can get more sessions with her; so that he can continue to peel away layers of deception from her core.

She's becoming quite the source of entertainment for him, and it hasn't even been a week.

* * *

The week passes with all the haste of wax slipping down a candlestick. Dragging, lulling time- and it's in moments like this that he truly feels the hopelessness of this place.

All the prisoners shuffling past in their long, desperate lines. Lacking any imagination, many of them so lost in their own minds that they don't speak- and the worst of all, there is nary a smile in sight. That's his kind of prison, after all. No colour; no place for humour.

When Selina  returns on Thursday, he is so glad to see her that he immediately lashes out.

"Where have you been, you  _fleabag_?" He snarls the second she swings through the vents. Selina is accustomed to his aggression, though; she flicks her slanted eyes to him, manicured eyebrows arching.

"I'm not going to visit you any more if you keep calling me that," She yawns, sprawling out on the bed besides him. His face turns into a childlike scowl- his boredom is making him particularly petulant today, and he knows it yet does not care.

And Selina knows him better than many. So she can sense the source of his agitation, and when he continues to scowl merely rebates him with a reminder; "You could leave this place any time, you know. No one's forcing you to stay in here doing nothing every day."

The truth of her words is a pleasant temptation- and she's right, hasn't this little stint in here lasted long enough? What does he have to gain by remaining in this dank hellhole any longer, but...

"Doctor Quinzel." He demands swiftly, and feels a sense of misgiving when saying her name aloud causes an odd shift somewhere inside him, his stomach tipping off kilter. "Did you bring me anything?"

"So, so needy." She chides him with a swift click of the tongue. "No soda today, J. But I did find something else."

He squirms with excitement like a young child as she produces an envelope from somewhere, one of the many pockets hidden about her seemingly smooth suit. 

"That Doctor Quinzel; I did some digging. She's pretty," Selina acknowledges with more than a hint of attraction, tossing a trio of photos against the rough grey blanket of the bed. "These are the only pictures of her I could find. Nothing on her social media accounts but a work shot. It took a lot of digging just to find this." 

She taps the most colourful of the three photos with a pointed fingernail,; the Joker stares at it and the curiosity lights up inside him like a neon sign.    
The bland garb of Doctor Quinzel is,  _deliciously and perfectly_ , absent here. The photo is clearly dated by a few years- her yellow hair is shorter, cropped off above her jawline. Eyes shadowed with a thick stripe of black that resembles a bandit's mask. Lips painted black, too, and parted in what could be a gasp for air or a sigh of pleasure; he can't tell, but a sickening streak within him is pleasured by the thought that it's the latter. And her clothing is a far cry from the dowdy white coats and ill-fitted slacks. In fact, he could barely call it clothing.

Black vinyl tight as anything Selina would wear clinging to shapely thighs and hips, and above that cleavage spills from the briefest of leather corsets that's short enough to display a long swathe of stomach. The piece de resistance is that her skin is even marked by a dolphin tattoo, leaping just above her waistband.

Who is this woman? This exhibitionist whose image has seemingly flipped right around?

He can't tell where she is, what she's doing in this photo. Nothing but a sweep of darkness behind her, and she's caught in an awkward incidental pose, half turned away. Her eyes, despite the boldness of the black that shadows them, appear almost... angered.  

The other photos are less surprisingly and laughably dull. One is of her graduation; standing stiffly in a black gown against the front of Gotham University. The other is a generic head shot before a beige backdrop In both these pictures, she's smiling blankly, face devoid of any character.She barely looks human- more like a doll behind plastic packaging and cheap imitations of professional clothing. Barbie plays a doctor.

Picking up the photos he compares them. One with short, wild blonde curls and clothing that wouldn't be out of place in some of the clubs he himself frequents. Two with crisp white blouses, hair plastered from her face, so perfectly composed.

He throws the uninteresting photos down, condemning them to the floor so he can focus on this new information. The smile on Selina's face is smug as a certain animal who has the cream.

" _Oh_ , my dear Selina. You've done very well, extra milk for you tonight. Where did you  _find_  this?"

She feigns nonchalance, inspecting her nails idly as though discovering this buried treasure of an image is not really worth mentioning. The curve of her lips gives away her pride and self satisfaction, though.

"There was a record of her attending a public school in the Bronx. I scanned all media accounts of people in her grade and social events in the area for a face match." She pauses, voice suddenly becoming hesitant- which is notably unlike her. Selina is not one who chooses her words carefully, especially not over trivial matters like this. "Some...  _boy_ had this buried in the photos on his account, about six years ago. No captions or tags, but it's clearly her." Another weird, tentative pause (cat got your tongue, Selina?). "The boy's account was memorialized. His name was Jack Ryder; he was-"

"Dismembered and left to rot for a week before anyone found him!" She doesn't need to refresh his memory on that one; he recalls the case, from the better half of a decade ago. The crime was vile, so much that he couldn't help enjoying the hype. Dismembered truly was an understatement; he saw the photos, the very deliberate acts of mutilation performed on the boy. One notable detail was how some things were... not quite where they should be.

For example; his dick had been cut right off and shoved so far down his throat that it was almost completely hidden. _That_ had been _hilarious._

"Everyone assumed that was _me."_   Because something so intentionally twisted must be attributed to him, after all.

More silence, Selina's lips pursed tightly like a clam, and the gears and the cogs in his brain grind away as they piece together a possibility.

"I put the dates together... this photo of her must have been taken the night before he disappeared." And with that fact, almost forced unwillingly from Selina's mouth, she confirms the shred of hope dancing through his brain.

It's like a spark; the same inexplicable crack of electricity her presence creates. Painful, but he has always adored pain in nearly every form. It lights up his synapses, sends his neurons surging and his nerves tingling at the very thought. Like a well delivered one-liner; it tickles him in the right way and he lets out a shriek of excitement he's certain that the entire building can hear, what with the way it rips through his throat.

"I almost didn't want to tell you," Selina snorts; she knows what he's thinking. Evidently she anticipated it- and if anything, that is confirmation that she must have at least considered the possibility herself. "There's absolutely no proof, J. None whatsoever."

"You can shove your 'no proof' right up Batman's gadget covered ass," he snorts immaturely, holding the photo up to the light as if doing so will bring out new details, some tiny and almost imperceptible clues for him.

"I looked at the police records," She argues, as if such a thing is cast iron proof of her innocence. "She was questioned. It's the only thing on an otherwise squeaky clean file. And she barely knew him. Plus had a solid alibi."

 He clicks his tongue;  now, he _knows_ she's not so naiive. Records can be forged and fabricated if needed; Selina herself is a master of such a thing. And even if not, the police are ignorant, desperate to believe what they know. They are so easily subjected to manipulation; a person can easily erase all proof of their crimes if they are smart enough.

_She's_ certainly smart enough. She's a psychiatrist; she has medical knowledge and back then she would have been 20, already studying pre-med.

He knew before that she had committed his most beloved crime. He could see it in her face during the session, when he asked her. See how increasingly numb she became when he asked that, how any spark in her retreated further to protect herself from revelation.

"It makes _s_ o much sense, Kittycat. She's clearly about as sane as a box of peanuts. And why _else_ would she be so hard to find information on?"

Selina may not feel the truth of it, but he does. He  _knows._  It has clicked into place with a certainty he wouldn't dream of questioning; he cannot be convinced otherwise. A strange, exotic snap of this woman- taken by a boy murdered  _so_  shortly after. And it is Gotham; murders do not go unsolved in this city. Not for any more than a few weeks, at least; however long it is for the _rodent cavalry_ to come galloping in. For Batman to throw someone behind bars and for "Bruce Wayne" to throw a donation at the grieving family.  

She was _involved_. Possibly even the culprit, the one responsible for such bloodshed. How could it be otherwise?

Dear God. The possibility that she was involved- or even responsible for- an act such as this... it's _wonderful._ It's a thing of beauty.

 _ **Lunatics of a feather, flock together.**_

And he wonders at that. At the strange, polar pull to this woman and the ceaseless desire to know more. Is it some twisted, fucking absurd, sense of destiny? That she is some kind of missing link, the only one whose insanity can match his?

He tears that thought up swiftly into confetti, and is disgusted for even conceiving it. Suddenly his joy is toppled by anger, disgust... fear.

The Joker has never thought something close to that before; he can't afford to. He has had friends, yes. Accomplices. Hench people. Enployees. People to manipulate, people to kill. People to _fuck_.

None of them have ever come close to matching his insanity, to proving themselves a constant companion. And he _needs_ it to be that way; he needs to be alone and revel in his singularity. That he is an individual and that his mind is sole in its way of thinking, one of a kind.

"You're going to lose your shit when I tell you her name." Selina mutters dryly and its a merciful interruption because it cuts right through that uncomfortable branch his thoughts had taken, allowing him to forget it for the moment. He looks up at her at once, dropping the (glorious) photo.

"My dear Selina. I already have lost my shit, a  _long_  time ago, in case you had forgotten. But tell me anyway." 

A pause, a grimace amusing in its reluctance, and then she grinds it out.

" _Harleen_."

It's a strange name, he'll give her that, but at first he sees no significance aside from just  how _unpleasant_ it is. Old fashioned and dowdy; with a cheap finish to it, belying her apparently not-so-stellar background. Doctor Quinzel; Doctor Harleen...

Doctor _Harleen Quinzel_. 

Harlee(n) Quin(zel).

The world really has thrown the joke right back in his face. This could be a delusion for just how _frighteningly perfect_ it is. He throws himself back on the bed, howling with a hysterical laugh, seeing in his mind's eye Doctor Quinzel- but different, in this daydream, her face painted white like a china doll, lips red and eyes ringed like a panda. Bells jingling from a two horned cowl, laughing in a way he has never truly seen in life, but that the imagination of has his body thrumming with an unstable urge. Stuffed in a box, but he winds the key and she springs out, dancing, cackling.

Harleen Quinzel?

 No.

_Harlequin._

That's

what

she

is.

Harlequin.

_Oh, Doctor Quinzel can shrivel up into oblivion._

_Hello, Little Miss Harley Quinn the Harlequin._

The Joker has a knack for guessing what's to come, sometimes. And he has to say-

He hates her, but by God, she has brought a sense of excitement to his existence that he didn't believe was possible. For once, there is a mystery; there is a madness underneath that he has the chance to get his claws into. She will not be killed before he can know her, or easily forgotten on the ever-dancing carousel of faces he sees throughout his 'life'. No, he knows already that she is going to be a prominent piece on the board. He just has to find how to use her to the best of her potential. How to break down her exterior.

One way or another, he knows is going to have a lot of fun with this confusing little creature.

//

 


End file.
